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I felt like a thief with a bagful of stolen glances.

Jeanette Winterson

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Jeanette Winterson
Age: 67
Born: 1957
Born: August 27
Author
Film Producer
Journalist
Novelist
Prosaist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Short Story Writer
Writer
Manchester
England
Felt
Like
Thief
Glances
Thieves
Stolen

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We fear passion and laugh at too much love and those who love too much. And still we long to feel.
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Always in my books, I like to throw that rogue element into a stable situation and then see what happens.
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You know every cell in our bodies is completely renewed every seven years, so how can we talk about being the same person? We're absolutely not.
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I fell into the books, and left myself there for safekeeping.
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I know I've had an unusual beginning and a colourful life, but that wouldn't matter if I couldn't make it speak to other people.
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We bury things so deep we no longer remember there was anything to bury. Our bodies remember. Our neurotic states remember. But we don't.
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I hate the word lesbian it tells you nothing its only purpose is to inflame.
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There’s no story that’s the start of itself.
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Her butler opened it for her. His name was Boredom. She said, 'Boredom, fetch me a plaything.' He said 'Very good ma'am,' and putting on his white gloves so that fingerprints would not show he tapped at my heart and I thought he said his name was Love.
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Why did I walk so purposefully in a straight line? Where would it take me? He went round and round and we got there all the same.
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I don't see myself as some kind of lone figure standing out there and doing my work in solitary splendour, but as part of the human condition and part of the continuum of writers.
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I walked out to brood on this life of ours, which seems from birth to death to be a steady loss, disguised by sudden gains and happiness, which persuade us of good fortune, when all the while the glass is emptying.
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It's true that heroes are inspiring, but mustn't they also do some rescuing if they are to be worthy of their name? Would Wonder Woman matter if she only sent commiserating telegrams to the distressed?
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It is helpful for a woman artist not to have a husband.
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I dream of flight, not to be as the angels are, but to rise above the smallness of it all. The smallnesss that I am. Against the daily death the iconography of wings.
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I had huge ambition for literature. I don't see the point of doing anything if you don't have ambition for it.
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That is what literature offers—a language powerful enough to say how it is. It isn't a hiding place. It is a finding place.
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A curse on this game. How can you stick at a game when the rules keep on changing? I shall call myself Alice and play croquet with the flamingos. In Wonderland everyone cheats and love is Wonderland, isn't it?
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I know now, after fifty years, that the finding/losing, forgetting/remembering, leaving/returning, never stops. The whole of life is about another chance, and while we are alive, till the very end, there is always another chance.
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The trouble is that when most people are apathetic ordinary people ... have to go too far, have to ruin their lives and be made an object of scorn just to get the point across. Did they really think I'd rather be camping by a polluted river than sitting in my own flat with my things about me?
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